


The Old Ways

by ravenclawkohai



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawkohai/pseuds/ravenclawkohai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cloud's value of the old ways and Old Nibel language cause a barrier between him and the rest of AVALANCHE; a barrier that Sephiroth finds easy to exploit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to waifujuju and starryfrost for beta reading!

                Cloud looked around the main deck of the Highwind, a pang of loss running through him yet again. He missed Aeris for so many more reasons than just one, but what made the old wound sting again and again was the loss of someone who understood. Aeris followed the Ancients as best she could, clung to her roots. She understood it viscerally, that culture mattered, that it was the duty of the last ones left to preserve what could be saved at all costs. It was in downtime like this that left him feeling alone, even amongst his companions; no one had quite understood as Aeris had. He leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets as he surveyed those around him.

                He was not bitter. He was not angry or frustrated. He was baffled. No one else here dragged their people’s history behind them. No one else chose that weight, and gods, it must be lighter without it. Like Nanaki, he was the last of his kind. Even though Tifa remembered Nibelheim, she did not keep the old ways. She did not honor the gods, honor her ancestors, or even so much as speak Old Nibel. Despite the loneliness, he couldn’t just replace Nibel life with what was around him. The lessons his mother taught him were ingrained too deep, a part of him that he could never let go. His stubbornness was that of a people who settled and refused to leave a climate determined to kill them. It was his resourcefulness, bred from desperation to survive the harsh winters. It was his protectiveness of those he called kin, now those around him in place of neighbors, because no one survived if they were isolated at the feet of Mount Nibel. It was the quiet prayers of for strength in battle, thankfulness for success, of offering the kill after the battle was won. There were a thousand ways the culture his mother had left him to guard had shaped who he was, and they impacted so much more than his accent.

                Cloud shifted his weight, running a hand through his hair. He would never understand how the others could abandon what was worth so, so much.

                But people were different, and though he couldn’t understand, he didn’t resent the others. They just confused the hell out of him.

 

                It had started out small.

                It had started out in dreams, like these things tend to. Cloud, like most people, expected it to stay that way.

                It was light, at first. He dreamt of Nibelheim and, for once, it wasn’t coated in flame or smeared with blood. It was the town as he remembered it when he was young. The bricks were chipped in the same places as always, fresh snow crunched underfoot just as it should, the homes bore the same white-covered rooves and chipped paint that he remembered. The only difference he could find was that it was empty. Entirely empty. Cloud had gone from house to house, searching every room and finding each unlocked, and yet there was no one there. The town was abandoned.

                With no one nearby, Cloud climbed the water tower, which was far easier than he remembered, and sat on the edge, his feet dangling down. He leaned back against the wooden planks, letting his head thump back against them. He shut his eyes, breathing in the smell of home, of ice, the snow-muffled sounds of wind and distant howls of the Nibel wolves.

                It felt like years that he sat there soaking in the feeling of a proper homecoming. It wasn’t until he breathed a quiet thank you to Odin that he realized he should have paid better attention.

                “Odin isn’t who you owe your thanks to.”

                With the dull lack of surprise found only in dreams, Cloud sat up calmly and looked to the newcomer. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

                “I didn’t know dragons could talk, much less speak Old Nibel.”

                The huge, green beast eyed him. The dragon was odd, with acidic green eyes, slit cat’s pupils replacing the standard circles he had seen on others of the breed. It was scarred deeply, long-healed gashes across its hide, matched with what looked like damage from a lightning spell. Though it appeared healed here, it must have died from those wounds. Nothing could take that much damage and survive. If the scar patterns looked familiar, like he had witnessed a dragon brought down in that manner, it was certainly a coincidence and not worth his attention.

                “This is your dream, Cloud. Here, there is no shortage of beings that could speak your tongue. Not like in reality,” the dragon said, its words sibilant and odd, as if it had trouble forming the Nibel words with its snout.

                Cloud leaned back against the water tower again, casting a look around. “A dream, huh? It did seem too peaceful for a true Nibelheim homecoming.” The dragon settled its large body down onto the bricks, its head tilting as it watched him.

                “Then this is the homecoming you had wished for. Peace without anyone to disturb it.”

                Cloud hummed, though whether it was in thought or agreement, he couldn’t have said.

                “I would have wished for my mother to enjoy it with me,” he told the dragon as he leaned back against the water tower.

                “But not the other villagers.”

                A frown twisted the corners of his mouth.

                “I never wanted them dead—especially not the way they went,” he said, words slow and thoughtful. “Not dead, just—”

                “Not there.”

                Cloud looked down, meeting the dragon’s piercing eyes. He could only nod in response.

                “You didn’t want them, not really. Only your family and your home, the parts you could love. The parts tied to you, that didn’t make you feel Other when you spoke the old tongue.”

                Cloud narrowed his eyes, holding the dragon’s stare. Then, suddenly, he laughed.

                “My subconscious is pretty deep tonight, isn’t it? I guess this is as good a time as any to be introspective,” he said, grinning down at the dragon. The beast’s eyes crinkled, the edges of its snout angled, and though it was decidedly difficult to say, it sure looked like it was smirking back at him.

                “Of course. After all, where is it safer than your own head?”

                As the dragon spoke, its voice changed. The gravel and growl smoothed to silk, the tone became deep, and though he couldn’t place it, it seemed oh-so familiar.

                He narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to ask—

                And then woke up very suddenly.

               

                One strange dream with one strange dragon he could handle. That was coincidence and a subconscious that tried to be intellectual on occasion.

                What he struggled to write off was the way he kept having nearly the same dream, night after night after night. He would appear in an empty Nibelheim, sit on the water tower, and the dragon would appear to speak to him until morning. The conversation was new each night, but it was the only thing that changed. Every night, the last word it said was in an achingly familiar voice that he could not place for the life of him.

                He may have been distracted during the day, leaning against his wall on the Highwind with his hands in his pockets, desperate to place the dragon’s familiar scar pattern and the voice. But the truth was, they had killed many dragons when passing through Nibelheim and he had heard so many voices, how was he supposed to place it?

                “—oud.”

                But that scar pattern was so distinct, there _had_ to be one that stood out enough for him to remember it. If he just thought a little harder…

                “Cloud?”

                And that voice! It was deeper than any that would be so familiar to him and silken. The words flowed like music, ready to envelop any that overheard.

                “Cloud! Planet to Cloud, are you listening?”

                Cloud’s head snapped up to see Tifa waving her hand in front of his face.

                _“You said you would want your mother with you, but what of Tifa? You’re quite close now, aren’t you?”_

_Cloud shook his head at the beast._

_“Of course, Tifa’s a close friend. It’s just that—she doesn’t get it, you know? Her father insisted she shouldn’t learn Old Nibel, it was too traditional and backwater. It was more progressive, better for her future to only know Common. I care about her, but for a homecoming? It would be better with someone who understood completely. Mamma was the only one who ever understood how important someone’s roots were. Tifa goes out of her way to forget hers. It wouldn’t be the same if she was there.”_

                Cloud blinked slowly, wiping the memory (and the frustration, the distaste that it left) away as he took his hands from his pockets.

                “What is it?” he asked. Tifa looked at him curiously.

                “We’re ready to land,” she said.

                “Alright, I’ll meet you down there,” he answered, standing up straight. She turned to leave, even got a few steps in, then turned back to face him.

                “Cloud? Are you alright? You seem,” she paused, searching for the right word. “Distant.”

                He shrugged.

                “I’m fine, Tifa. Just having some trouble sleeping. I’m sure it’ll pass when I’m on solid land again.”

                Though she looked unconvinced, she let it lie. She nodded once, and left him.

                Left alone, he finally let the tension pass from his shoulders. He took a deep breath and blew it out hard, ruffling his hair and rubbing his hands over his face. Maybe these dreams weren’t as acceptable as he thought they were if they were stopping him from acting normally with his friends. He needed to find some way to end them before it got worse.

 

                “Their indifference and distaste for their roots, their family—it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

                Cloud glared down at the dragon which, in its defense, didn’t realize it was hitting a nerve.

                “Of course it bothers me. It pisses me off that they’d disrespect their own dead and it frustrates me that they’re so happy to risk losing their traditions and history. But it’s _theirs_ to lose and their mistake to make. Just because they make a stupid decision doesn’t mean I hold that against them.”

                The dragon blinked and somehow, manages to make the movement smug.

                “Cloud,” it said, “I never said anything about holding it against them.”

                He sat back, suddenly embarrassed and indignant.

                “Are you finding it difficult not to resent them for it?” it asked.

                “ _No_ ,” he insisted, and even as he said it, it tasted of lie. “I just—am getting more frustrated about it. I don’t like seeing friends make mistakes.”

                “Yet you know that they don’t view it as a mistake.”

                “Well maybe one day they’ll wise up and then regret it.”

                “You’d risk so much aggravation on a maybe?”

                Cloud scowled, feeling outwitted. The dragon did its now-familiar almost-smile.

                “I think it’s brave of you,” it said, watching him with patient eyes. He scoffed immediately.

                “Closer to stupid than brave,” he grumbled.

                “Nonsense. You risk your own peace to attempt to spare your friends the pain of regret. Wouldn’t you call that brave?”

                Cloud scowled harder, but felt assuaged. At least someone understood where he was coming from.

 

                Tifa dedicated herself to Midgar’s culture, followed and carried it with her like it was precious, while leaving Nibelheim in the dust to rot.

                Barret left his home willingly, tail between his legs; he’d preferred to leave his people to the wolves than face his guilt.

                Yuffie ran from her home, from her culture, more than happy to leave and accompany them than attempt to help her people.

                Cid, though he had stayed in Rocket Town amongst his own, had spent his time wallowing in self-pity and shame rather than dedicate himself to his community.

                Vincent—if Vincent had a culture outside of what he learned from the Turks and Hojo’s lab, he neither mentioned it nor gave any sign that he remembered it.

                Reeve’s only culture was Shinra’s culture; what the company valued, he did. He may have had some different ideologies, but the company’s way of life dictated his.

                Nanaki was the closest to being excusable. Being the last of his kind, living in the labs for so much time—he had little access to his own culture. But his willingness to spite his own people because he wrongly thought his father a coward was a decision he had made. He adopted the culture of the humans in Cosmo Canyon, and wasn’t that worse from someone who was the last of their kind?

                Aeris was the only one who understood. She did her best to live up to the legacy of the Ancients, listened closely to the Planet for instruction. Though she knew little of her own people, she kept their ways as best she could. He never had to explain to Aeris why the ways and language of Old Nibel meant so much to him. She knew what he meant without him saying a word.

                But Aeris was dead.

                There was no one left to understand. Though he had tried to persuade them, he wasn’t exactly the best at persuasion. Though their excuses were all different, they made it very clear that they wouldn’t change their minds. Barret felt too guilty to return to his people, Nanaki wanted to help the present and not dwell on the past, Yuffie would worry about it when this was settled—all their excuses made sense, in their way. But they were also so, so strange to him. How did they live their lives separated from what they were at their core? How was their culture not woven into every fiber of their being? _How_ did they just set it aside?

                Cloud did not _resent_ them for it, but he was certainly frustrated and confused over it.

                Oddly enough, the only one who seemed to understand was the dragon. As time passed, he came to look forward to his dreams more and more. Sure, they were only dreams and yes, he _was_ only talking to a part of his subconscious, but it was the only place that he felt entirely understood. The others accepted him, were more than happy to leave him to his prayers and rites to care for his dead ancestors. But they could not participate and they did not have their own versions. They couldn’t fully grasp right down to their bones just _why_ he continued doing these things despite the world falling to pieces around them. They didn’t and they couldn’t, and while that was certainly grating during the day, at night, there was at least the dragon to understand. If anything, it judged the others, not him, for their lack of respect for their roots.

                “Hypothetically,” it had asked one night, “if you had other companions, ones who understood and were equally capable, would you have preferred to take them on this mission of yours?”

                Cloud hesitated, shifting against the water tower.

                “I suppose,” he admitted reluctantly. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d die for the rest of my group. But if I hadn’t known them, had never met them and started to care, then probably. It’s always easier to be around people who just get it and you don’t have to explain yourself to.”

                The dragon rumbled in a way that Cloud had come to understand was approval.

                “If the Planet wasn’t, as you say, at risk, and someone of the same values asked for your help, would you give it to them?” it asked, scratchy voice thoughtful.

                “Depends,” he answered. “People can do awful things in the name of family and tradition.”

                “If someone wanted to help the last of their family, as if you wanted to help your mother, would you offer assistance?” the dragon asked.

                “Of course,” Cloud said, response immediate. “If—if Mamma was alive and I could do something to save her, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help her. Family is everything in Nibelheim—or at least by the old ways. I would hope someone would help me if I asked; it’s only right that I offer the same.”

                The dragon rumbled in appreciation but asked no more questions. The remainder of the dream was spent in companionable silence, which Cloud could only appreciate. It was an easy silence that was, admittedly, absent amongst AVALANCHE. Yuffie was a chatter box, either Barret or Cid were always cursing at something, Tifa was extrovert enough to fill any silences. It was as if he, Nanaki, and Vincent were the only ones who preferred a little peace sometimes.

                After that easy silence, the chattering the next day grated more and more on his nerves. Instead of tolerating it as he usually did, he left. If he caught muttering about him being distant lately before he was out of earshot, he did nothing to respond. Being distant was better than snapping at everyone, after all.

 

                That night, it was not the dragon that met him.

                Strangely, he was not afraid that when he saw who it was.  Cloud leaned forward from his perch on the water tower, elbows on his knees.

                “I guess I should have known it was you.”

                “I was surprised you didn’t recognize the scar pattern or my voice, at the very least.”

                “I’ve killed plenty of dragons without you there to show off and take it down yourself.”

                “And my voice?”

                “You only ever gave me a word at a time. It’s a little hard to place something with only scraps to go on.”

                “Ah. My mistake, then.”

                Cloud looked down at Sephiroth and, for the first time since Nibelheim, there was no hate in his stare.

                “How do you know Old Nibel?” he asked, though it was far from the most pressing question.

                “Does it matter? I speak it well enough,” he answered, raising an eyebrow.

                “No,” Cloud said, leaning back against the water tower. “I guess not.”

                He did not ask another question, and Sephiroth did not press him to. The silence, strangely, was still companionable. Cloud did not move his eyes from the stars and Sephiroth did not move his gaze from Cloud’s eyes.

                Finally, the silence stretched to a breaking point, and Cloud said, “So that’s what this is all about? Helping your mother, trying to find your roots.”

                “Yes,” he answered. “Is that so wrong?”

                “No,” he said, and strangely enough, it felt true. “You know I’ll still have to fight you, though.”

                “Why is that?”

                “You’ll destroy the Planet in the process. I sort of live here, you know. I’m not really keen on dying.”

                “You wouldn’t have to die.”

                Cloud turned his eyes from the stars to Sephiroth, finally meeting his gaze.

                “Help me find my roots,” Sephiroth urged. “I would take you with us. You are already the last of your kind. Would it be so different to be the last human as well?”

                Perhaps it was the dream, but Cloud couldn’t find it in him to be anything but calm. He hummed and turned his gaze to the stars.

                “I guess not. I do still like this planet, though. I don’t think I’d like seeing it ruined.”

                “It sounds like you aren’t quite sure of that yet. There’s no rush. You can think on it.”

                And think on it he did. Ever since he awoke after those parting words, he could do little else. The idea kept buzzing around his head: he was more like Sephiroth than he thought. He could sympathize with the man. In truth, Cloud wasn’t sure he would do so differently in his position. Sure, he would attempt to talk his mother out of destroying the planet, but it was easier and easier to understand. Jenova was the Devourer of Stars. Sephiroth’s culture, his roots were in destruction. Even under Shinra, it was always his purpose. Cloud was lucky enough that his background was not the same. Ruin was not his inheritance. But _had_ it been, if this was all he had to cling to, if he was yet again the last of his kind, could he really say he wouldn’t do the same?

                Though he wrestled with the question, at the end of the day it didn’t matter. As much as he could empathize with Sephiroth, it didn’t change facts. Cloud’s own roots were in survival, regardless of how hard that was, and he would continue to do just that despite his sympathy for the enemy.  It only meant that he didn’t quite hate Sephiroth anymore.

 

                The dreams didn’t stop. If anything, they grew more intense, more real as they went. Every night, Cloud would sit in Nibelheim with Sephiroth. Each night, they talked of heritage, of family, of their own sorts of Reunion, of why they did what they did. They reached a peace between themselves; each understood why the other did what they did, why they were reluctant enemies, how each would join the other if not for their own reasons.

 Every night, Sephiroth offered him a place at his side. Every night, Cloud politely refused. Every night, he felt his convictions grow weaker and weaker. Sephiroth understood him in a way the others never could, never even _tried_ to. Even Tifa, Nibelheim born and raised, didn’t even try to understand. Sephiroth was only doing what they both knew was right in his situation. If the Planet burned, it would not change that Cloud was alone in the old ways. If the Planet lived, it would not change that Sephiroth was left the legacy of a goddess, her only son and, by logical extension, a god himself. A god that (he knew but would never admit to) answered better than Odin.

Every day, he spent more and more time asleep. He went to bed earlier, rose later, all excused with exhaustion. While the others looked concerned, they said nothing, did not even bother to ask. His accent grew heavier and heavier as the days passed, and the others grew more and more exasperated with asking him to repeat things. He, in turn, grew more and more frustrated that they would ask about his accent, but not about their supposed concern for his wellbeing. As the days grew, he accidentally slipped into Old Nibel more and more frequently, and while he shrugged it away, he did not apologize. He was not sorry for slipping into the language, he did not regret the hours spent speaking it in dreams that caused the slips, and he was not ashamed of his heritage as the rest seemed to be. Of course he did not apologize—there couldn’t be less of a reason to.

As he slipped more frequently, as he grew harder and harder to understand, the others spoke to him less and less. It was too difficult to understand him to be worth the effort, apparently. Only Vincent, who apparently developed an ear for languages with the Turks, could understand his accent with ease anymore and was often left to translate to the group. As they passed Icicle Inn, as they climbed toward the Northern Crater, it felt less and less right to kill him.

As they faced Jenova’s false image of Sephiroth and cut it down, as his blade dealt the final blow, Cloud knew to his core that killing Sephiroth was wrong. He had done nothing that Cloud could not understand. He could not be party to killing someone who understood so well. He could not be party to attempting to kill a god. He would not dare strike down Odin, and if Sephiroth really was Jenova’s heir, if Jenova really _was_ a god, would that not make them Odin’s kin? Perhaps he was even Odin’s son.

He could not do it. But he could attempt to talk Sephiroth out of bringing this planet down.

Cloud passed the Black Materia off to Nanaki—while he no longer thought, as he claimed, that Sephiroth might control him and force him to give him the materia (they were past that now), it would be better used as leverage if he could not give Sephiroth what he wanted immediately. It would be easier to persuade him if he did not, in fact, have the Black Materia with him.

His plan was solid. There was even a chance of it succeeding. He was fully prepared to talk him down from destroying the Planet. Or he was, right up until the world went dark and he and the others woke to the sight of road leading to Nibelheim.

“This is an illusion Sephiroth made up,” he said carefully in Common. It looked exactly like the version he had been presented night after night, and the attention to detail was a dead giveaway of the man responsible. “He’s trying to confuse us. It’ll be alright; as long as we know it’s an illusion, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” He turned to look at his companions, feeling a flash of frustration at their obvious reluctance. “Come on,” he urged, “let’s keep going.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tifa said, voice trailing, very clearly unsure despite her words. “Look!” she called, pointing ahead.

Cloud recognized the Nibelheim gates immediately, he’d been their nightly after all. The others turned to look as well, and then quickly scattered to make room for the one Cloud had been expecting. Truly, his appearance was less a surprise than the fact that Sephiroth wasn’t speaking to him—or not him, per se, but to a group of cadets and one black haired SOLDIER First.

“Alright,” he says, facing the gates of Nibelheim. “Let’s go.”

“Cloud’s not here,” Cid muttered. Cloud felt a flash of irritation and nervousness run through him: irritation that they weren’t listening when he said it was an illusion, nervousness in case it was not. To his side, Tifa shook her head.

“Stop,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. When she said, “Sephiroth,” it almost sounded like a plea.

Cloud clung to his frustration to cover his nervousness as he shrugged and grumbled in Old Nibel, “This is so stupid.”

In front of them, Sephiroth began to laugh. His face twisted in mirth as he covered his mouth with his hand.

As if his laughter was a trigger, the entire scene disappeared, leaving the group stranded in nothing but white. Cloud blinked and was met with the flames of his home once more. Cloud’s nervousness ratcheted higher, and with it, his frustration. None of the dreams had ever been anything like this.

Cid gulped, a quaver of nerves in his voice, “Hey, Cloud.  Let’s get back to the real world, huh?”

Before he could even answer, Tifa interjected, doing her best to reassure. “Cloud, it’s just an illusion. Don’t worry about it.”

It would have been more reassuring if she sounded at all sure of herself.

The world turned white again, consumed in a rush like the mountain wind.

“What’s next?” Cloud asked the air, slipping again into Old Nibel.

“Stop it already!” Tifa pleaded, her fear growing more and more concerning. Tifa was many things, but none of them cowardly.

“This is terrible,” Cid added in the voice that always meant he felt the need for a cigarette.

The world grew brighter, and when it faded, the white was replaced with Nibelheim ablaze. His heart ached, but his jaw tightened.

“This is what actually happened five years ago,” he said, keeping his Common as clear as he could. “But,” he said, speaking slowly as his mind raced. “It’s probably not me that’s going to come out of the Shinra Mansion. He’s going to try to show us another stupid illusion.” When the black haired man from earlier ran from the mansion, he spoke again, with more confidence. “See, didn’t I tell you?”

He watched as Zangan confronted the stranger, asking for assistance. It was a conversation that should have been had with _him_. He felt distant, almost out of body as he watched the events unfold. He almost didn’t notice Tifa’s approach, he was so focused on watching the strange display.

                “I don’t want to watch this,” she said, all hesitation. She put her hand on his arm, fingers tightening to support either herself or him; he couldn’t quite tell. “Cloud… don’t watch.”

                The scene continued as Cloud finally tore his gaze from the not-him living his memories. He laid his hand over Tifa’s and gave her a curious look.

                “What’s wrong, Tifa? I told you before, right?” he said, expression softening. “As long as we know it’s an illusion, there’s no need to be scared.”

                As if to prove him wrong, the world went white again. When the world came back, they were in the center of the flames, though strangely, they gave off no heat. Cid ran forward before anyone could say a word, kneeling beside what Cloud already knew was a long-dead corpse.

                “Hey. Hey! Are you alright?” Cid urged, shaking the dead man’s shoulder in attempt to wake him. Cloud put his hands in his pockets, waiting for the realization to hit. When it did, Cid let out a curse. “This was all made up.” He said, as if Cloud hadn’t been saying it since they arrived. The look of hesitance and nervousness stole over most faces in their group.

                Because apparently Cid’s word was worth more than his.

                Pulling away from Tifa in irritation, he stepped further into the flame, calling, “Sephiroth! I know what you want to say!” He shook his head in irritation, at the absurdity of the idea. “That I wasn’t in Nibelheim five years ago. That’s it, isn’t it?”

                There was a flash of white, quicker than a blink, and the brief tolling of the old Nibelheim church bell. When he looked up, he made eye contact with Sephiroth for the first time in months, for the first time since last night.

                “I see you finally understand,” he said. When he spoke, he used Old Nibel. It kept their conversation private, but it also cut to the heart of him.

                “What you’re trying to say is that you want to confuse me, right?” he said, letting his frustration pour out into the hard consonants of Old Nibel. “But even making me see those things won’t affect me. I remember it all—the heat of the fire, the pain in my body, the pain in my heart!”

                Sephiroth shook his head sadly.

                “Oh, is that so?” he said. “Your memories have been wrong before, isn’t that right? Blank spots, moments missing. How can there be any meaning in your memories in such a state? What I have shown you is reality. What you remember: that is the illusion.”

                Cloud hesitated. He hesitated longer than he liked to admit.

                It made sense. It was possible, wasn’t it? How long had his memory been faulty? He had always assumed it was recent, but how far back did it _really_ go? In truth, there were years of his past that felt hazy—he couldn’t remember a day of training. There was a massive gap from when he left Nibelheim until his missions as a First, and it was only concentrating on it now that made it so glaringly obvious. His past was everything to him, Sephiroth knew that. He knew how much Cloud valued his roots, where he came from. He was only trying to return to him a valued possession.

Cloud shrugged off his hesitation and walked toward him.

                “Do you understand?” Sephiroth asked, head tilted down to maintain eye contact.

                “I don’t want to understand,” Cloud said, all truth. If his memories were wrong, how did they get put there, who kept them there? If Sephiroth was right, then he owed him for bringing him the truth. He turned away; it was easier to say without eye contact. “But—I want to ask you one thing. Why… why are you doing this?”

                The world flashed white, and suddenly Sephiroth was in front of him again, so close, _too_ close. The others moved to stand by his side, but came to a sudden halt as Sephiroth reached out and cupped his cheek. Cloud felt his breath pause on the inhale, everything in him stalled. Sephiroth’s fingers glided down his jawline. He used two fingers to tilt his chin up that they could better make eye contact.

                “I want to give you back your real self,” he said, voice low and musical, making the Old Nibel sound like satin. “The one who gave me the Black Materia that day,” he trailed off, then shook his head sadly and dropped his hand. “Your true self understands better, despite all that’s been heaped on it to bury it so soundly.”

                Cloud opened his mouth to answer, then closed it and shrugged.

                “Cloud!” Tifa called, and though the others turned to her, Cloud felt locked in Sephiroth’s gaze. “Don’t listen to him. Close your ears! Close your eyes!”

                “What’s wrong, Tifa?” he wondered, switching back to Common, despite being clearly distracted, his attention focused on Sephiroth. “I’m not affected by it.”

                “Whatever he’s saying, it’s a lie!” she insisted. “Don’t we have memories together? Being kids together, starlight nights…”

                As she broke off, Sephiroth interrupted with a chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

                “Tifa, why are you so worried and scared over words you don’t understand? Hmm,” he hummed, amused and pleasant, “Shall I show everyone here what’s in your heart? That would reach across language barriers.”

                She answered only with silence, quickly turning away. Sephiroth chuckled again, this time louder, amusement more apparent.

                “You look like you’re not feeling well,” he said, tone smug. When Cloud next blinked, he was gone.

                The silence stretched around them, tight and awkward. The others looked between Cloud and Tifa, clearly confused, unsure of what had happened or how to proceed.

                “Tifa?” Cloud finally asked, voice full of hesitance. “Is Sephiroth right?”

                The silence rewove around them, encompassing them and the flames. It stretched and grew yet again.

                “Cloud…” she said trailed off, reluctance clear in her voice.

                “Why are you so scared?” he asked, slowly becoming afraid himself. “Don’t worry about me. I’m alright.” He was absolutely sure that those were lies. He looked to the ground. “It’s true that sometimes I can’t figure out who I am. There’s a lot that’s muddled up in my memories. But, Tifa,” he paused. He took a deep breath and continued on. “But you said ‘Long time no see, Cloud’ right? Those words will always support me. I am the one you grew up with. I’m Cloud of Nibelheim. No matter how much I lose faith in myself, that is the truth.” He looked up at her, eyes full of determination. “That’s why you shouldn’t be so scared. No matter what anyone else says to me, it’s your attitude that counts.”

                He turned away. He had said his piece. He could rely on Tifa for little else, but she was the one he grew up with. If nothing else grounded him, it was Nibelheim. Though she respected it less than he did, they did both share it. Just as language and religion were ties back to Nibelheim, back to home, back to his roots, Tifa tied him back to what mattered. Whoever Cloud was aside from Nibelheim and what Tifa knew mattered little, because the core remained the same.

                “No, that’s not true, Cloud…”

                It felt like he was dumped in a snowbank.

                His shoulders tightened to his ears. His stomach twisted itself into knots. His head shook and he faced Tifa.

                “What’s not? Aren’t I the same Cloud you grew up with?” he insisted, voice quiet, as he sent a hope and a prayer to the gods. His gut flipped as if it already knew the answer.

                “That’s not what I meant,” she muttered. “I don’t know how to say it… Cloud, I need some time. Just give me a little time.”

                The world turned white and suddenly there were hands on his shoulder. As Sephiroth dipped his head to speak by his ear, silver hair fell over his shoulder into his field of vision just in time to frame Tifa as she turned away.

                “Cloud,” he uttered in Old Nibel, “Don’t blame Tifa. You always knew this was how it would end, didn’t you? After all, how can you trust someone who would betray their own people? Once a traitor, always a traitor.”

                As ‘traitor’ passed his lips, Cloud’s eyes flashed green, his pupils slit for a split second. The others took a collective step back—whether it was out of surprise or fear, he wasn’t sure.

                White flashed again with Sephiroth gone when the world reappeared.

                “Cloud,” Tifa urged, turning back to face him again. “ _Please_ ,” she pleaded, sounding closer to desperate than he’d ever heard her. “Don’t think right now.”

                The world flashed again, and Sephiroth was behind the group. They parted as one, giving Cloud a direct line of sight to Sephiroth’s earnest look.

                “Think, Cloud! All of them are traitors and you know it. Tifa betrayed Nibelheim long before she betrayed you. She can’t even understand what we’re saying! You’ve seen the others do the same—how long do you really think it will take them to do the same to you? You can’t rely on a traitor to tell you the truth. All she’ll do is feed you lies.”

                “If it isn’t the truth,” he said carefully, purposefully choosing Old Nibel, despite the flinch it earned from the others, “what is?”

                Sephiroth’s expression, his demeanor softened. He walked toward Cloud slowly.

                “Think, Cloud; think hard. What was the Nibelheim mission to you?”

                “My first mission as First Class,” he answered immediately. He frowned just as quickly, his head beginning to ache as confusion settled in. He wracked his memory. “SOLDIER, First Class?” he muttered, voice trailing. He shook his head.

                “Keep thinking, Cloud,” Sephiroth urged.

                “SOLDIER?” he asked the  air. He clutched his head in a familiar gesture as a tremble set into his bones. “When did I enter SOLDIER? _How_ did I enter SOLDIER?”

                When the trembling grew to quaking, grew to knees buckling, he fell to his knees, but with the support of Sephiroth’s hands on his biceps. Cloud looked up to him in desperation.

                “Why can’t I remember?” he pleaded, voice quiet, desperate, as he rose to one knee at Sephiroth’s urging.

                “I’m… I’m…” he stuttered, eyes going distant. It was through Sephiroth’s aid and support alone that he made it back to his feet.

                All at once, the trembling disappeared. An eerie calm washed over him as Sephiroth’s hands slid up to his shoulders.

                “That’s right,” he said. “I didn’t have to worry about it because I was…”

                Sephiroth smiled as they made eye contact again. He nodded, and suddenly the world went black.

 

                When the world reappeared, he was standing in the center of a cave covered in materia. Shinra, who had apparently found the place first, had their men scattered about the cave itself.

                “Hey!” called Scarlet, suddenly looking at him. “Where did you come from?”

                “Don’t know,” he muttered absently, slipping in his forgetfulness to Old Nibel. He turned to Rufus Shinra, who was, as always, at the center of his lackeys. Purposefully switching back to common, he said, “This place is going to get rough. Better leave things to me and get out of here while you still can.”

                “Leave things to you?” Rufus scoffed, flipping his hair from his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

                Slowly, Cloud turned. The peace he had felt wash over him before returned. He was sure he’d never felt so calm in his life.

                “This is where the Reunion is happening,” he explained. “Where everything begins and ends.”

                Nanaki, whom he passed the Black Materia off to, came running into the cave

                “I’m here to help you, Cloud!” Nanaki called.

                Without hesitation, Cloud walked to his side.

                “Thanks, Nanaki,” he said. “Where’s the Black Materia?”

                “It’s safe. I’m holding onto it.”

                With a small, pleasant smile, Cloud said, “I’ll take it from here. Give me the Black Materia.” He held out his hand, waiting expectantly. Nanaki, however, paused.

                “Are you alright, Cloud?” he asked. When he smiled just a little more and nodded, Nanaki passed the materia over. “Then, here you go. I was a little apprehensive holding this thing.”

                Cloud took the materia and briefly ruffled Nanaki’s mane. “Thanks,” he answered. “Leave the rest to me.”

                Walking forward, he called over his shoulder. “Thank you all. For everything. And,” he said, hesitating briefly in both speech and step, before he continued, “I’m sorry.”

                Suddenly, Cloud rose jerkily through the air. Every dozen feet he’d pause, fall just a bit, then rise; like a puppet with its strings being pulled. He stopped only when he faced a blue center of the materia tree growing through the cave.

                “Sephiroth,” he muttered. The man was encased in the mako, the softest smile on his face. When he continued, it was in Old Nibel. “Sephiroth, I brought you the Black Materia. This is what you needed, isn’t it? To help your mother. To follow the destiny your roots laid for you.”

                As Cloud pushed his hand into the mako, he uttered, “I promise, I will never be a traitor to you. It isn’t in me to betray what matters—but you know that, don’t you?”

                The materia floated from his hand, and the world turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to the wonderful waifujuju who beta'd this chapter for me!

                The first time Sephiroth and Cloud crossed paths with AVALANCHE, not much had changed, at least not from AVALANCHE. Sephiroth, however, acted as he did when they were alone now. His focus, originally on the group as a whole, seemed to shift purely toward Cloud.

                When they saw the group in the distance, Cloud couldn’t help but tense. They were the only group he had ever betrayed _(Sephiroth told him otherwise, it wasn’t betrayal, no, no, just acceptance of the truth)_ and the wound behind that _(turning his gut sour)_ was still so, so fresh. His eyes flickered from mako green back to blue and that was when he felt a hand on his arm.

                Sephiroth _(his friend, his god)_ stepped in front of him, a hand on each of his upper arms, crowding into his personal space, leaning over to completely cover his sight of the oncoming group. His hair fell around them, shutting him out completely from the _(not so bad but not so good maybe not worthy)_ world.

                He managed to make the Old Nibel sound smooth, comforting as he said, “Nothing has changed. They were traitors then, they are traitors now. You have nothing to fear from them and you owe them no guilt.”

                “I know,” Cloud insisted. “I know, I just—”

                “Hush,” Sephiroth interrupted. He took hold of the back of Cloud’s neck, fingers just grazing his hair, and Cloud couldn’t help but shiver. The smallest of smiles touched Sephiroth’s lips. “I’m with you now.”

                A wave of peace, of calm surety swelled inside him ( _a gift passing from god to disciple)_ and the tension drained immediately from his shoulders. The smile on Sephiroth’s lips grew.

                “Good,” he said, and the world spun a little slower. Cloud focused on the praise _(undeserved but so, so welcome—when was the last time he was praised? by his mother? maybe old nibel comes with praise maybe this won’t be the last time for years and years and years)_ ,  on the fluttering feeling deep in his belly that it caused. “Now, can you face them for me? Can you stay strong?”

                “Yes.” The answer was immediate. There was nothing to consider, after all; his world was narrowly quickly to the only one who cared for him, leaving less and less room for _(traitors_ ) old friends.

                The tips of Sephiroth’s fingers grazed his hairline, a comfort against an oncoming storm. Sephiroth’s smile grew once more before it faded and he nodded to Cloud, who nodded in return. And then he stepped aside to reveal AVALANCHE. The group had been running forward, but as Sephiroth stepped out of the way to reveal their once-leader, they came to a collective halt.

                Sephiroth walked to the side, putting distance between himself and Cloud, and all at once, Cloud knew this was a test.

                He also knew it was a test he would not fail.

                “Cloud!” Tifa was the first to recover, running forward toward him.

                “What are you planning, you bastard?” Barret demanded, nearly snarled, at Sephiroth, whose only response was the slight upturn of his lips.

                If he looked smug, it was because he knew what would happen. If his smile grew as Cloud took a step back and Tifa halted, it was at the pleasure of being right.

                “Cloud?” she asked, hand outstretched just slightly.

                “Tifa,” he answered, dipping his head just slightly in acknowledgement.

                “Cloud, it’s okay,” she began in earnest. “Whatever’s happening, whatever he’s doing to you, we can fix it. Just come back with us.”

                “No,” he said, and the feel of Common on his tongue had never been so foreign.

                Tifa stilled.

                “Cloud, you don’t have to listen to what he tells you.”

                “I’m an adult, Tifa, I know how to make my own decisions,” he bit, the words coming out sarcastic and hard before he could stop them. Instead of stilling again, she balled her hands into fists at her side.

                “You know he’s made decisions for you in the past. All he does is force you into things, do you really—”

                “I do really,” he snapped, eyes glowing greener for a split second. “It isn’t like that anymore, it hasn’t been since I left, and if he ever did in the past, it was only because he knew the choices I would make if I had understood.”

                “Understood? Understood what, Cloud? That he killed your mother and burned Nibelheim and wants to burn the world?” she spat, voice growing louder with each word.

                He paused, the wound of his mother’s _(passing on, was it really Sephiroth who did that?)_ murder still too fresh. And then he shook his head, opened his mouth to respond when Sephiroth cut him off.

                “You owe them nothing, Cloud,” he said in Old Nibel, separating their conversation from the others. “Not your time, your words, nor your suffering. She doesn’t care for you, only that I don’t have help. She wouldn’t rub your face in something so painful if she truly cared.”

                And as he spoke, Cloud unwound from tension he hadn’t even noticed starting to build. Each word released more and more tension, softened a taut muscle.  When he was left relaxed ( _certain of who the traitors were)_ once more, Sephiroth began to walk toward him.

                Urged by his approach, Tifa called, “Cloud! You don’t have to do what he says!”

                “Remember, Cloud,” Sephiroth countered in Old Nibel. “You owe them nothing.”

                With that, he stopped the last few feet away from Cloud and extended a hand.

                It was the simplest thing in the world to cross that last distance and take it.

                “Cloud, no! Don’t listen to him!”

                Cloud tilted his head, looking at Sephiroth curiously, the group of his once-friends ( _future-traitors)_ already forgotten. Sephiroth smiled, placed his hand low on Cloud’s back, and began steering him away from the group.

                They did nothing but walk away, and somehow, that was what caused the biggest uproar from AVALANCHE. Only Vincent remained silent, his face hidden in his collar.

                As they walked, as Cloud’s pace slowed at the outcry, Sephiroth dipped his head, mouth by Cloud’s ear.

                “You did well, Cloud,” he said, and that was all it took for him to keep walking.

 

                The two returned to their camp in the Northern Crater, Cloud high on praise, Sephiroth smug in his success. They had been sharing a tent since Cloud defected; Sephiroth had not taken a spare and Cloud had not thought to bring his own ( _he didn’t necessarily consider it a bad thing)_. Despite the enhancements of each, neither was immune to the cold of the Northern Crater dressed as they were. They built a fire high, not fearing drawing the local wildlife, and sat next to one another for warmth. If Sephiroth didn’t remove his arm after pulling Cloud closer for warmth, well, it was just one more source of heat.

                “You were testing me,” Cloud said, slipping comfortably back into Old Nibel, staring into the flames. “You gave me the choice to go back to them. Why?”

                “Cloud,” Sephiroth said. Cloud raised his eyes to meet Sephiroth’s gaze as he continued slowly, “I sleep next to you at night. We hunt and fight side by side. You keep your blade and materia on you at all times. You wanted to kill me not so long ago. Is it so strange to want to be sure I can trust you?”

                Cloud paused, searching Sephiroth’s eyes. For someone declaring himself a god, he seemed strangely human in that moment. Relatable. Not truly so different. His expression was open, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips, likely at explaining what should have been obvious. When Cloud’s silence drew out, Sephiroth raised his eyebrows in expectation.

                “No,” Cloud finally answered, turning his gaze back to the fire.

                “I can trust that you want to be here now. I do, however, have one more thing I need to test.” When Cloud turned to look, Sephiroth was also staring into the fire.

                When he refused to elaborate, Cloud prompted, “What’s that?”

                “Your willingness to work with me,” he said. Cloud scoffed, finally drawing his gaze from the flames.

                “I fight next to you daily. Of course I’ll work with you,” he said, confused and surprised that Sephiroth of all people would doubt something so obvious.

                “Cloud, you didn’t want to kill me over a few murdered wolves,” he said, eyes a steady pressure Cloud could feel in his bones. He shook his head slowly.

                “No,” he answered, “I did because I misunderstood.” Sephiroth smiled, but with an almost bitter edge.

                “Ah, and what do you understand now?”

                “That you are a new god, the first we’ve had since the old days.”

                The statement hung between them. They held eye contact, the northern wind biting one side, the fire warming the other. Strangely, the moment didn’t pass as Cloud elaborated.

                “Jenova must be one of the _Vanir._ Odin and the other gods, the _Aesir,_ passed long ago into materia—still to be respected, but unable to impact the world alone. Jenova was safe in _Vanaheim_ until she came to us here. It’s different, worshipping a goddess of destruction instead of warriors, but then I’m not really worshipping her.”

                Sephiroth listened with rapt attention to his explanation, his eyes almost seeming to burn with intensity. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

                “Oh?”

                “No,” Cloud answered, voice equally low. “The war between the _Aesir_ and the _Vanir_ is long dead. I’m just doing my best to help.”

                “To help her, your goddess of destruction?” Sephiroth prompted, voice dipping lower still.

                “All she’s trying to do is her work as a goddess,” Cloud said.

                “And I?”

                “You,” Cloud said—tried to say. He faltered, realizing that he had been leaning toward Sephiroth _(to hear what he was saying of course)_ as they spoke. The second he started to lean away again, Sephiroth’s hand shot out, faster than lightening, to catch hold of his chin, freezing him in place.

                “What am I to you, Cloud?” he asked, voice low _(almost sultry but that couldn’t be right)_.

                “My god,” he blurted, the words slipping from him before he could think about them. When his words caught up with his brain, he rushed to fix it. “I mean, the son of a goddess could only be a god, right?”

                “Yet you didn’t say _a_ god. You said _your_ god,” Sephiroth said, a warmth appearing in his voice. A warmth that carried over to stain Cloud’s cheeks pink.

                “Well, I—” Cloud started, before he was very quickly silenced, not by words or by a hand, but by a kiss Cloud had never in his wildest dreams imagined.

                There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was hard, bruising, intense. It was thorough, and claiming, and like Sephiroth was attempting to pull the soul right out of him _(he wasn’t sure that he didn’t succeed)_. By the time Sephiroth was happy with his work, Cloud was sure his lips were very, very kiss-swollen. Sephiroth looked at his handiwork with satisfaction, the hand on Cloud’s chin slipping up to cup his jaw, thumb resting on his bottom lip, keeping his mouth parted just slightly.

                “My apostle. My disciple. _Mine_.”

                Nothing in Cloud’s life had ever been quite so easy as it was for him to nod his head in that moment.

                Sephiroth moved to cup Cloud’s cheeks, pressing one final chaste but firm kiss against his lips. When he spoke again, it was close enough that Cloud could breathe in the air he exhaled ( _and it felt like a gift_ ).

                “One last test, Cloud. One more and I can trust you completely,” he said, voice low enough that anyone less enhanced wouldn’t have heard a sound.

                “What is it?” he whispered, eager and earnest to fulfill his task.

                “Prove to me that you have the heart to destroy, to help me follow in my mother’s footsteps,” Sephiroth said, bowing his head to nearly touch Cloud’s. His hair curtained around them, letting in only flickers of firelight through the gaps the wind caused.

                “How?” he pleaded.

                “Raze Kalm to the ground.”

 

                He had never puked so long. Not even the time he got food poisoning from daring the shellfish in Shinra’s cafeteria. He had puked until his gut was empty and then he kept heaving and heaving and _heaving_ —he could feel every muscle in his body strain in attempt to force more from his stomach, but at this point, he was sure not even bile was left. It didn’t help that as he had finished emptying his stomach to the point of dry heaving, he had wiped his hand across his mouth, only succeeding in smearing blood across his face, which set off another round of attempting to empty the nonexistent contents of his stomach.

                Gods but it was like the first day of deployment all over again. The first day he had killed a human being it was nearly like this. But that had been nothing compared to this, not in terms of puking or in bloodshed. _Gods_ , there had been so much bloodshed. He had killed as many before, but those were Shinra operatives aiming to kill him, _that_ had been do or die, kill or be killed, and _that_ he had handled. This—this was slaughter. A pure massacre of innocents.

                And he had done it quickly, methodically, and without hesitation.

                It wasn’t until he was nearly back to their camp that he had collapsed, blood-soaked and shaking, to his knees to vomit. And he had stayed there, vomiting and trying to vomit when that failed, until he felt hands on his shoulders.

                “I had wondered why you took so long, but this would explain it.”

                Sephiroth knelt beside him, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand on his arm as he sat back on his heels. Cloud attempted again to wipe at his mouth, and again only succeeded in smearing the blood across his face. Feeling the cooling blood across his lips, feeling the disgust begin again and the shaking settle into his shoulders, he did the only thing he could: look to Sephiroth for guidance.

                Gently, Sephiroth wiped the blood from his lips before caressing his face.

                “It’s alright, Cloud. It’s to be expected,” he said, a small, almost sad smile forming on his lips. “You’re only human after all.”

                And that—that had never felt like a bigger failing than it did in that moment. Not only had he gone out and slaughtered a town full of innocent people and burnt what remained to the ground, he didn’t even succeed in pleasing the man he was doing it for. That Sephiroth seemed to notice his distress only felt like a bigger failing.

                “No—Cloud, you did well,” Sephiroth insisted, the smile turning brighter. Cloud’s brain came to a screeching thought, as the panic that had begun to well in him burst like a bubble, leaving him unsure of what to feel and if he could dare feel pleased. “I know this was hard for you, but you succeeded regardless. It’s only expected you feel this way—any human would.”

                Sephiroth turned Cloud to face him with the gentlest tug on his upper arm.  He cupped Cloud’s face between his hands and, smiling, said, “Let that all go now, Cloud. These are the death throes of your humanity. You can be more than that with me. Mother and I will show you, but you have to let that go. Can you do that for me?”

                Still shivering, still staring with too-big eyes, Cloud could only nod.

                “Very good,” Sephiroth praised, his thumb stroking Cloud’s cheek. He slid his hands down Cloud’s arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, to take his hands. “Now,” he said, raising them both to their feet. “We have business to attend to. AVALANCHE was in the area, they heard about Kalm and are on their way. They’ll likely be here shortly. Tell me now: can you handle them in the state you’re in? Be honest with me. I’m more than capable of dealing with them by myself.”

                Cloud hesitated, hands tightening briefly around Sephiroth’s.

                “I can handle it,” Cloud said, voice low. Sephiroth released one of his hands, curling a finger beneath Cloud’s chin to raise it.

                “Remember, you don’t have to speak a word of Common to them. You owe them nothing. You can do this,” Sephiroth insisted. Cloud only nodded in response, and when Sephiroth gave him a reproving look, he nodded more fervently. Sephiroth smiled then, flicked the hair from his eyes, and said, “They’re nothing compared to Kalm, after all.”

                When Cloud nodded that time, there was no hesitation.

                “Sephiroth!”

                Cloud moved to turn toward the call, but Sephiroth took a firmer hold of his chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

                “Cloud!” a voice, Tifa’s, some part of him knew, called again.

                The two held their eye contact, until slowly, Cloud nodded again. Sephiroth nodded briefly in return and when the two separated, they were greeted with the entirety of AVALANCHE.

                “Cloud…” Tifa said, taking a hesitant step forward, right until Barret reached out and grabbed her arm.

                “Look at him, Tifa,” Cid snapped from the back of the group. He took a drag on the cigarette in his hand, then tossed it too the ground and ground it out. “He’s covered head to goddamn toe. We know who did it, and it wasn’t fucking Sephiroth.”

                “That doesn’t mean it was Cloud’s fault!” Tifa snapped back. “We’ve all seen the kind of thing Sephiroth can force him to do!”

                “It’s like we’re not even here,” Cloud whispered to Sephiroth in Old Nibel. It was covered up well with Cid’s rebuttal.

                “Even if it _is_ all just him being forced, and that’s a big fucking if, that makes him a lost cause at best,” Cid countered.

                “Perhaps we should just leave,” Sephiroth muttered, matching Cloud’s Old Nibel, as Tifa spoke over him.

                “So, what, we kill him? We can’t just do that, not if he’s really innocent!” Tifa urged. “That would make us as bad as Sephiroth!”

                “Could we?” Cloud asked.

                “Now that’s a fucking stretch and you know it,” Cid countered.

                “Of course—if you’d prefer it to watching them argue in circles,” Sephiroth offered.

                “How is it a stretch! Both involve killing people for crimes they didn’t commit,” Tifa snapped.

                “Please,” Cloud said.

                Sephiroth smiled and, with a flick of his fingers, activated the time materia in his bracer, casting a wide Stop spell over the entire group. Cloud sighed in relief.

                “Thank you,” he said as Sephiroth took his hand to lead him back toward their camp and away from the arguing ( _traitors_ ) group. “That was…”

                “Not helpful, considering what you just went through,” Sephiroth offered, thumb stroking over the back of Cloud’s hand. “I understand completely.”

                A silence settled over the duo as they walked away from the frozen AVALANCHE, and it wasn’t until they were just out of sight that Sephiroth broke it.

                “You did well today. You undertook a difficult task that went against your very nature and, immediately after, withstood meeting with the traitors. I’m proud of you. You have my trust. ”

                Cloud did not answer, but the smile he struggled ( _and failed to_ ) bite back spoke loudly enough for him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta read, but here's the conclusion!

                Having won Sephiroth’s trust, more tasks were entrusted to Cloud. At times the pair wreaked havoc and destruction together. At times, Sephiroth went to one town and Cloud to the next, doubling the amount of people they could terrorize. AVALANCHE trailed behind them, desperately attempting to catch up and prevent the pair from doing more harm than they already had. Fortunately, a group of unenhanced almost-civilians had very little hope of catching two soldiers as enhanced as Cloud and Sephiroth were. They stopped less frequently, covered more ground, slept and ate less often; their grueling pace offered little respite and put them at a swift enough pace to easily outrun the group on their tail.

                The isolation did nothing but bind the two closer to one another. On their breaks, Sephiroth preached the gospel to him—the truth poured from divinity to disciple and reinforced day in and day out. Cloud knew there were still gaps in his memory, and those gaps were decidedly growing bigger. He woke one day unsure of who his parents were, where they were, what his hometown was, recalling only the distaste the thought of that home left in his mouth; he decided it was better to have forgotten. What he couldn’t do was bring himself to care. His past was irrelevant, wildly unimportant when he had the future to look toward—and gods, it was a shining, beautiful future. He would ride the planet across the stars with his god, bringing cleansing ruin from planet to planet until the end of his days. He could think of nothing more perfect than the future at hand when the meteor that hung in the sky, summoned by his god’s will alone, a miracle in and of itself, descended and burned the Planet clean.

                He could, however, still feel annoyance when AVALANCHE eventually caught up with them.

                “Cloud,” Sephiroth called from where he stood across the burning town square. He flicked his sword and the soon-to-be corpse slid clean of the blade as Cloud pulled his own blade from a townsperson and turned to look. A frown appeared on his face as he watched AVALANCHE approaching.

                “I thought they were still two days behind,” he said, walking to stand at Sephiroth’s side, bloody blade still in hand.

                “It appears they’ve been riding chocobos to catch up,” Sephiroth explained, flicking Masamune a second time, splattering blood across the cobblestones. Cloud sighed in irritation, a frown that was nearly a pout growing on his face. Sephiroth chuckled at the look and placed his hand low on Cloud’s spine in a comforting gesture. In an instant, the tension slipped entirely from Cloud’s frame and when he looked toward Sephiroth, the frustration had melted into adoration. “Speak no Common to them—you owe them nothing and, while we’re here, we might as well frustrate them more.”

                Cloud laughed, a light, almost airy sound as he shook his head and smiled up at Sephiroth. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

                Sephiroth favored him with a smile. As he leaned down, Cloud automatically turned his face up to meet the warm, if brief, kiss.

                “You learn quickly,” Sephiroth said, breath fanning across Cloud’s face, who shivered at the sensation.

                “I do my best,” Cloud breathed. Sephiroth gave him a fond smile and placed one more swift kiss against his lips. As he pulled away, he caressed Cloud’s cheek, and neither were bothered by the smear of blood his hand left in its wake.

                The two pulled away, eyes turning in synch to meet the horrified stares of AVALANCHE. Each member was either pale or slightly green from watching the Old Nibel conversation. The silence hung, heavy and near oppressive, yet Sephiroth’s stabilizing hand on Cloud’s lower back grounded him enough that he didn’t so much as shift in the uncomfortable atmosphere.

                “I wonder if they are more appalled at us or the state of the town,” Sephiroth said in Old Nibel, causing the corners of Cloud’s lips to quirk up.

                “Both, I bet,” he answered, matching the familiar language.

                “Cloud?” Tifa finally said, finding the nerve to step forward slowly now that the silence had broken. “Cloud, are you in there?”

                “Ah, they still believe you unwilling,” Sephiroth remarked.

                “After this many weeks, you’d think they would have figured it out,” Cloud answered. Tifa pursed her lips, knowing by the language barrier that she was not the one being addressed.

                “Tifa, this is hopeless. We can’t keep letting this slide to get him back—he’s already gone,” Barrett grumbled, adjusting his gun arm in the case of a fight.

                “No.”

                All present turned to look toward Vincent, who had broken his standard silence with a refusal all had been expecting from Tifa instead. Vincent walked forward, eyes locked with Cloud’s as he did so, until he reached the front of the group.

                “He’s with Sephiroth willingly,” Vincent said, voice low but clear of any hesitancy. “But if he chose once, he can do it again. We may be able to change his mind.” Cloud’s brow furrowed as he frowned.

 “How does he know that?” he asked Sephiroth, still speaking only in Old Nibel for privacy. Though Sephiroth opened his mouth, he never got a chance to speak.

“With difficulty,” Vincent said, and the world stopped for Cloud. The Planet stopped spinning, AVALANCHE faded into the background, even the hand on his back fell from his senses. He focused on Vincent in a way he normally reserved for Sephiroth and Sephiroth alone.

After all, no one else should be able to speak Old Nibel.

“How?” was all Cloud managed to whisper, and though he did not notice it, it caused a gasp to ripple through AVALANCHE, who saw the way his words were accompanied by a flicker of his eyes from acid mako to storm-sky blue, from slit pupils to circles. Though it was only a moment , a wave of hope spread through the group.

“I learned,” Vincent explained. His mouth twisted around the sounds wrong, his accent was heavy, but the Old Nibel was understandable, _there_. Vincent had never given any hint of knowing the language before. Had he always known and hid it? Had he learned after Cloud had left, hoping to draw him back? A warmth spread through Cloud’s chest—only Sephiroth had ever undertaken such a task for his sake. Excitement bubbled through him and he turned to look at Sephiroth with a smile.

“Can we—”

“Kill him.”

Sephiroth’s words were whip-like, quick and harsh, and they stung as much as a whip might.

                Cloud hesitated, and though he didn’t know it, his reluctance showed clearly in the blue of his irises and roundness of his pupils.

                “Cloud, you don’t have to do what he tells you,” Vincent urged quietly.

                Cloud knew better.

                “Please,” he pleaded, and yet he knew immediately that it was the wrong answer in the way Sephiroth’s eyes cut to him, hot fury burning in his eyes.

                “If you won’t, then I will,” Sephiroth said, adjusting his grip on Masamune. “I am disappointed in you, Cloud.”

                The words cut him to the quick. Immediately, any hope he had turned to desperation.

                “Please, let me kill him,” he begged, taking a step closer to Sephiroth, who took a matching step to keep their distance. “Please, have mercy on him.”

                For they both knew that is Sephiroth were to kill the one who came between them, it would not be quick and it would not be painless.

                “You made your decision, and now your _friend_ will pay for it. Learn this lesson well, Cloud, and never make this mistake again,” Sephiroth said, walking forward toward Vincent.

                “ _Please!_ Please, he learned for my sake, this is my fault, please let me fix it,” Cloud said, following in his wake like a dog at heel.

                “You will watch,” was all Sephiroth said. Dread and resignation flooded Cloud, who came to a sudden halt in his path. He did his utmost to apologize to Vincent with his eyes alone. The man nodded, forgiveness passed along silently, and began to load his weapon.

                And then he froze, one bullet between his fingers, as Sephiroth casted a wide Stop spell, freezing all but himself and Cloud in place. With two quick flicks, he removed each of Vincent’s hands, and then removed the Stop spell from him.

                Screams filled the air, Sephiroth went to work, and Cloud obediently did nothing but watch.

 

                In the weeks after that, AVALANCHE was the least of his concerns. Cloud was filled with nervous energy, desperate and fearful that Sephiroth may no longer want him after his slip with Vincent. One mistake, and Sephiroth was already cold and distant. He did not kiss him, he did not touch him at all, his words were nothing but curt and only came when absolutely necessary. When given orders, Cloud reacted immediately, desperate to earn back favors. He was sent on solo missions, frantic to be quicker than Sephiroth expected, more thorough than expected. Though he returned to Sephiroth’s side quicker and quicker each time he was sent out, though the layer of blood and soot he returned in was thicker and thicker each time, it still took weeks for him to earn forgiveness.

               

                “Sephiroth!”

                “One day,” he said, tone exasperated, “they will get tired of rehashing the same old confrontation.”

                “They always were stubborn,” Cloud added in Old Nibel as the two turned to see themselves faced with AVALANCHE yet again. For a split second, Cloud found it difficult to meet their gazes in light of the incident with Vincent ( _if his eyes flickered blue for that split second, he would never know it)_. The second passed quickly, however, and he looked mildly toward the group before him.

                “Cloud—” Tifa started.

                “—Will not be joining you,” Sephiroth said in Common, speaking slowly as if to a child. “How much more proof will you need to understand that?”

                “We’ll believe it when you stop controlling him!” Tifa snapped. When Sephiroth sighed in response, it sounded horribly put-upon.

                “Cloud,” he said. “Stop breathing.”

                Instantly, Cloud closed his mouth and stilled his lungs. This—this would be a difficult order to follow. He hadn’t started with full lungs, and the burn was going to start quickly. But especially after Vincent, he had to prove himself. He could do this, he _would_ do this, biological responses be damned.

                “Cloud?”

                “Holy shit.”

                “No way.”

                “Son of a bitch.”

                Each member of AVALANCHE had their own look of horror, of disbelief on their faces. He couldn’t quite understand why; after all, they couldn’t have truly expected anything else, could they?

                “Stop it!” Tifa yelled. “Just stop it!”

                “No,” Sephiroth said simply, clasping his hands before him, not even glancing in Cloud’s direction.

                His lungs were beginning to burn.

                “We get it, now let him breathe again!”

                “No,” he repeated. “I’m not forcing him to do anything. He could breathe again any time he’d like.”

                “Like hell!” Barret interrupted. “Even Spike wouldn’t do something that stupid!”

                “And that’s where you’re wrong. Nothing is stupid to him if it comes from me,” Sephiroth explained.

                The blood was rushing to his head, fruitlessly attempting to get oxygen to his brain.

                “Bullshit!” Barret countered. “Let him breathe!”

                “Cloud,” Sephiroth asked, turning to look at him. “Answer honestly. Am I preventing you from breathing?”

                Cloud shook his head.

                “Are you holding your breath because you have no choice to?”

                He shook his head again.

                “Are you waiting for my permission to breathe again?”

                He nodded.

                Sephiroth turned to face AVALANCHE. He spread his hands briefly before letting them fall to his sides.

                “There you have it. If, as you said, I was forcing him to do anything, he would have had to answer those questions honestly.”

                The look of horror on the faces of AVALANCHE’s member swam before him. He was feeling lightheaded. He hoped they would hurry things along; if he passed out, he would accidentally start breathing again without permission. He hoped Sephiroth would forgive him for that if it happened.

                “We understand,” Nanaki said, walking to the front of the group. He sat on his hind legs, watching Cloud evenly. “We’ll leave once he starts to breathe again.”

                Darkness was crowding his vision from the corners inward.

                “Cloud,” Sephiroth called, and it cut through all the haze. “Breathe.”

                Triumphant, Cloud gasped, pulling in the largest breath he could. He leaned forward, hands on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath, his entire body shaking from the effort he had expended. Silence hung until he gathered his breath and stood upright again, a proud smile on his lips. He looked toward Sephiroth, who was not looking at him, but instead staring down AVALANCHE, a single silver brow raised.

                “Well? Leave.”

                Though each looked reluctant and some took the prodding of Nanaki’s nose to start moving, they did begin to leave. It was only when they were out of sight that Sephiroth turned toward him, coming forward to pull him into his arms. He kissed the top of his hair.

                “Thank you, Cloud. You did so well,” Sephiroth praised, gloved hand smoothing Cloud’s spikes.

                Cloud felt like he had found the 7th Heaven Tifa named her bar for. He felt like he was floating, he felt like he could have flown if only Sephiroth asked. He was elated, and everything about his existence narrowed down to Sephiroth, the feel of his arms around him, and his words.

                “I couldn’t have sent them away without you. Your help was invaluable. Hopefully, this will be enough to keep them away forever,” Sephiroth said, tone warmer than Cloud had ever heard it. “You’re mine, Cloud Strife, and now no one will get in the way of that again.”

                Though Cloud truly tried, he could not think of anything he’d prefer.

                Sephiroth took Cloud’s face in his hands and kissed him.

                This time, the touches lingered longer. They pressed harder, hard enough to bruise. When they kissed, it was no gentle pass of affection. It was searing, hard and fierce. Cloud came away with swollen lips and a matching collar of bruises. His wrists had the imprint of Sephiroth’s hands around them, and he walked away with a stinging scalp from the way Sephiroth had pulled his hair.

                Cloud was not stupid, he knew he was being claimed with each kiss. He did not, however, mind. He offered himself willingly, would give all of himself freely. In his eagerness to prove this, he did not think to protest when kisses moved further and further south. He did not complain when his clothes were removed and he was claimed in every way Sephiroth could think of. Protestation was the furthest thing from his mind. He could not be trusted with himself—he made a huge mistake with Vincent, and he had learned his lesson completely. He trusted Sephiroth with his mind, body, and soul. He would follow where he lead willingly, through murder and eventually, the stars. He offered everything he had, everything he was, and Sephiroth took it all as his due.

                After all, there was nothing he would not do for his god.

 


End file.
